Something I Lost
by Marla Fair
Summary: My answer to the December Pennings from Prompts challenge to write a short using the phrase, 'It's better to give than to receive.' Ben Cartwright has lost something precious. What will it take for him to find it again?


Something I Lost

I was not a good mood.

In fact, I didn't know if I would _ever_ be in a good mood again.

It wasn't bad enough that I had been forced to go through the motions that morning – taking the buggy into town, sitting through the Sunday service with my boys while enduring the endless expressions of pity and misplaced compassion. Now, I found myself sitting and sipping tea with the new reverend – a spry, elderly gentleman from Ireland named O'Reilly – who had come to inquire as to whether or not I was 'all right'. I had appeared distressed during the service, he said. My handshake had been less than firm as I exited. My countenance, less than...benevolent.

It _might_ have seemed less than benevolent that morning. It was _definitely_ less than that now. If I'd had my way, I would have shown the man to the door, helped him into his rig, and _off_ my property!

Easy, Ben. Easy. It's not the reverend's fault. He's just doing what he's supposed to do – saying what he's been taught to say.

Saying the things _you_ were taught to say. Those empty things you've been telling yourself since that day last spring when...

When the unthinkable happened.

"Mister Cartwright..."

"Ben," I correct. It's obligatory.

"Ben. When I took the pulpit, your former pastor told me of your recent loss. He assured me you were coping quite well."

"Yes. Of course, I am." God's will and all that.

"Poppycock."

It took a second. "I beg your pardon?"

"Poppycock, I say! You don't beg my pardon at all." He shook his head. "And lying is only adding to the sin, Ben."

" _Which_ sin?" I demanded.

"Have you so many you don't know?"

"I..."

Who _was_ this man?

Before I knew it there was a hand on my arm. A startling breach of etiquette for someone I hardly knew. I glared at him. I glared at his hand.

It stayed put.

"Son," he said. "God knows you are angry at Him and, guess what?" The reverend lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Everyone else knows it too."

"I'm not..." It was obligatory.

And it was a lie.

At that moment the door burst open and my boys came tumbling into the house; Little Joe in Adam's arms. He wiggled and giggled and wriggled free just as Hoss reached out to take him and the three of them ended up in a tangle of legs and arms on the floor.

In front of our guest.

"Boys!" I roared. "Where are your manners? I didn't raise my sons in a barn!"

And then I _glowered_ at them.

You would have thought they were facing the hangman's noose.

The reverend rose to his feet. By the time he reached the door, Hoss and Adam were on their feet. He leaned down and offered Little Joe a hand up.

"Sure now, a barn's a fine place to grow up in. Don't you think?" he asked.

And then he gave the boy a big smile.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Pa?"

I stirred and opened my eyes. It took a moment for reality to bleed in. It crystallized quickly enough when I noted the empty spot in the bed beside me and touched the cold sheets where Marie should have been.

"Adam?"

My oldest stood in the doorway, his black hair tousled and his hazel eyes heavy with sleep. I couldn't see him well, but there was something about the cast of his long lean form that set me instantly on edge.

"What's wrong?" I asked as I threw the covers aside.

Who would have thought six words could change a man's world?

"Pa, we can't find Little Joe."

I'd put him to bed before the reverend left. The boy had been quiet and settled right away. Or so I had thought. We searched the house. We ransacked the stable and barns. We turned the whole of the Ponderosa upside-down, inside-out and over.

Joseph was nowhere.

Hoss was inconsolable. He was sure his baby brother was dead. When I asked him why, he told me that the day his mama was laid in the ground some 'kind' soul had told him that Marie had been too good for the Earth and, so, God had taken her to be with Him.

Damn them.

'Little Joe's _real_ good , Pa. So maybe God decided to take him too!' the boy wailed.

It went to show how worried Adam was that he didn't correct his brother.

It was later that night that a knock came at the door. I rose shakily and moved like an old man toward it. I had returned home to make certain my other boys were all right. There were men out still, looking for Joseph. I meant to rejoin them as soon as I could. Tears shone in my eyes as I tremulously opened the door, sure that I would find Little Joe's deathly pale corpse cradled in a stranger's arms.

Instead I found the Reverend O'Reilly.

"Did you happen to miss somethin' today?" he asked cheerily as he shifted his thick black cloak aside.

I have never seen a more glorious sight than that head of golden-brown curls.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Later, after Joseph was safe in his bed, I looked for the reverend and found him in the kitchen.

"Is the wee one asleep?" he asked as he held out a steaming cup.

I nodded as I took it. "Yes."

"Ah, that boy. Sure'n his smile is a gift from the Lord."

"Reverend..."

He met my steady gaze. "You're wonderin' why the lad hid in the back of my rig?"

Again, I nodded.

"He wanted to ask me to help him find something you'd lost. He thought, since I had one, I would know where to look."

"Something I'd lost? What?"

The older man reached out with two fingers. He placed one at the end of each of my lips and lifted up.

"Your smile."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

I sat by my youngest son's bedside as morning broke, thinking about what the reverend had said. As I did, I dropped my head into my hands and wept.

My child was afraid of me.

Oh, Marie. How could I have forgotten? How _could_ I have forgotten what you brought to this house – to my life? How could I have forgotten that joy was your heart? The laughter and light were your very soul?

That _both_ are the soul of our young son.

I touch Joseph's shoulder to rouse him. He scowls, and then sneezes and opens his eyes. My boy tenses when he sees me, expecting the glower; anticipating the unkind word spoken in a stern, commanding voice. Instead I brush his curls aside and plant a kiss on his forehead.

"Pa?" he asks, confused. "What is it?"

What is it?

"It's better to give, I think, than to receive," I say.

And then...

I smile.


End file.
